


Bad Luck Charm

by strikeyourcolors



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alien Invasion, Also Jason is there, Brother Feels, Damian needs a rabies shot, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Good Big Brother Dick Grayson, Illnesses, Minor Injuries, Protective Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake is unlucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-29 23:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikeyourcolors/pseuds/strikeyourcolors
Summary: Bruce's plans to send Tim on a vacation to reduce his stress levels are waylaid by some strange happenings. Has Tim's bad luck finally come to an end or has it just rubbed off on everyone else?





	Bad Luck Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Remember "Trouble Magnet"? Yeah, neither do I(even if I wrote it). This is its spiritual successor, but you don't have to have read it for this to make sense, other than that Tim is unlucky. But you knew that already, right? 
> 
> This is pure family fluff. However, if you don't like vague mentions of vomit, skip the entire first several paragraphs. Otherwise, enjoy!

All things considered, it's not the grossest substance Bruce has ever been covered in. The unexpectedness of it, the fact that he's in lounge pants and a t-shirt rather than his suit, lends a kind of frightening gravity to the situation. At least he can throw the clothing away, unlike the batsuit. 

"Oh my God," Tim breathes, eyes still red and tearing as he retches. "I'm so sorry." It's said in between gags and Bruce physically lifts Tim to get his head in the sink of the wet bar across the room. Tim is fortunately easy to move. He's light (too light, Bruce thinks) and pliable, save the tensing of his muscles when he starts to retch again. 

There's more than the vomiting. There's the breathing. It's off, moreso than it should be even for Tim currently being sick. A constricted airway and when Tim isn't gagging, he's wheezing. Bruce is kind of worried he'll asphyxiate and he pushes his son nearly upside down in the sink to make sure he has less of a chance of choking. He doesn't really notice the way the faucet is positioned. At least, not until he feels the solid contact of it whacking against something. 

Tim's cheekbone. Hard enough that Tim reels back and scrunches up his face in anticipation of being hit with it again. Bruce grimaces; so far he's avoided nearly accidentally murdering Tim Drake and he would like to keep it that way. Even if most of those instances had been avoided with conscious help from the teenager. For Tim to be safe he needs to be on his toes. Especially when his foster father tries to knock him unconscious and unintentionally drown him in the sink. 

It had all been going so well before that. They were partially through a movie marathon. Damian had been sneaking sugary treats along with his health food and Cassandra had been perched on the balls of her feet, enthralled with the movie. Tim was getting over a cold, enjoying being able to taste the chocolate wafer cookies he favored and even the rare soda he allowed himself. Tim had fallen asleep on the sofa with Bruce. Damian had slunk to bed for his mandatory night off, Cassandra had gone out to patrol and Bruce had stayed with Tim's head on his lap, not wanting to wake him. 

Tim had woken himself. Startled awake, more like, and while Bruce looked for danger in the room he hadn't sensed his son had tossed his (actual) half digested cookies all over him. 

At least there hadn't been milk to go with them. At least they hadn't been in Tim's stomach for long. As vomit went, chocolate cookies and stomach acid was a disgusting mixture that could have been far worse. He also hasn't had to use a finger sweep or a bulb syringe to clear Tim's airway. There's nothing to do for the moment but hold Tim over the sink, rub his back, and make certain he doesn't pass out. Or his his head on the faucet again of his own volition. Bruce is kind of hoping no one has to find out about that because he's been lording over them all the fact he hasn't been party to Tim's string of bad luck. At least not where it's injured him. 

"Ugh," Tim says at last. There's nothing else in his stomach and he sags in Bruce's arms, resting his cheek against the cool marble of the bar's counter. "I'm sorry, Bruce. Should've known better than to eat and fall asleep flat like that. I wouldn't have if I'd known-"

"Wait," Bruce interrupts. "This has happened before?" He'd already been considering a stomach virus and subtly checking Tim for a fever to clear out organ rupture. 

Tim eagerly takes the paper towel he's offered, wiping his mouth. His teeth are a kind of frightening gray from the liquified wafers coming back up over them. "Yeah," He admits. "Waking up in a kind of a panic with acid reflux? I thought it happened to everyone."

The look Bruce gives him says clearly without words that not everyone wakes up in a blind panic and vomits. Tim grimaces, slowly standing on his own power. He rinses out his mouth, then the sink. "It's okay, really. I'll be fine," Tim tells him with a real attempt to sound chipper that falls absolutely flat considering Bruce is coated in Tim's bodily fluids and Tim is shaking a little bit as he focuses on making sure the sink is clean. 

"Master Bruce- oh dear." Alfred takes in the scene with only a hint of dismay before he sweeps in, grabbing a towel to wipe the worst of the mess off Bruce's pajamas. "Into the shower with you," He orders. "Master Timothy, do you require medical assistance?" 

It's really more of a courtesy at this point to ask. Your leg could be across the room from the rest of you and Alfred would only sigh and get the first aid kit. "Just some antacids and a toothbrush," Tim replies, making an effort to stand more upright instead of hunched. "I had a thought about the Renauld case, though. Let me just wash my face and I'll go down to-"

"No," Bruce says flatly. He takes his shirt off, careful to avoid his face. The liquid on him is starting to cool and stick to his skin and that is making it even more disgusting. "You are going to your room, taking your medication, and sleeping."

"I think we saw what sleeping does to me," Tim replies, trying for a joke. 

"Then sit quietly," Bruce replies. "Read. Play a video game. But no work."

Alfred will enforce his wishes. Maybe. Bruce is hopeful he'll see the logic in them as he makes his sodden walk through the manor to his bathroom. 

~*~*~

It's stress. Alfred runs blood work and does an ultrasound, much to Tim's annoyance, early in the morning. Bruce makes an appointment with the family doctor as soon as those tests come back clear. 

Alfred's good. He's a miracle worker sometimes. He also isn't a gastroenterologist and Bruce Wayne knows the importance of a decent medical record to make you seem like a real human being. Once Tim's cleared from it being some kind of toxin or a crime-fighting injury, they'll see the real professionals. 

Tim glares at him the entire visit, insisting he could have done this himself. Bruce knows. Bruce even trusts Tim to keep his promise. What Bruce doesn't trust is Tim's ability to get from Point A to Point B without finding trouble or something shiny to distract him. So Tim sits on the table grumpily in a paper gown and Bruce reads the news. 

They didn't want an endoscope. Tim exhibits classic signs of acid reflux. He's sent away with a stronger prescription antacid and a list of trigger foods to avoid. It's also strongly suggested that Tim take some time off, and the doctor tries to stare Bruce down as he says it. 

Bruce doesn't even bother trying to lose the staring contest with the doctor. If anything, he tells Tim to work less but Tim is driven. Obsessive, even. Tim is also almost glaring at both of them because if there's anything he hates it's being told he's under stress. There's no key to relaxation for him. Solving cases only makes him work harder on the next few to continue his streak. Coming to a lull in crime has him hunting up new projects to devote himself to. It's good, most of the time, that Tim is a workhorse. 

It's not so good when he wakes up hyperventilating or puking or trying to do both at once. 

They meditate. They do yoga. Alfred invests in some herbal teas that Tim scorns in favor of coffee despite the caffeine in it being a trigger food. 

“That's it,” Bruce says at last after a night of patrol lands him a broken nose and part of his ear nearly torn off. “You're going on vacation.” 

“What?” Tim demands. “No!” 

“Father wants you out of the house so he can see about finding some good luck charms,” Damian informs him without looking up from where he's repairing the laces on his boot. “He's written your ineptitude off to a jinx.” 

“There's no such thing,” Tim argues. “At least not with me. Just call someone and they'll tell you there's no magical influence on me and I can-” 

“No,” Bruce responds flatly. “I'm benching you. Tell me where you want to go for a week and I will send you there. To relax, not to work. If I find otherwise you'll simply have to go again.” 

Bruce means business. Tim's brain is instantly rushing to try to find a way to circumvent this new plan of his. A week isn't so bad...not the month the doctor had suggested certainly. “Five days?” Tim bargains. 

“Full week,” Bruce counters. “Don't push me, Tim.” He sounds worried, and tired. Tim hates to be the cause of that. 

The argument is interrupted by the buzz of Bruce's phone, and of Tim's. Damian's communication unit goes off as well. It's never a good sign when someone needs to get a hold of all of them at once. Bruce reads off his first. “Potential alien invasion in the Gibson Desert.” Their lives are so insane that he doesn't even sound surprised, just resigned. 

“I'll suit up and take the smaller plane,” Tim offers. 

Bruce lifts a hand and almost wags a finger at him before thinking better of it. “You'll take the larger plane with Nightwing and Robin,” He replies. “If you have to go at all.” 

Tim only feels a little smug in pointing out that it's an all hands alert and he certainly has hands. He doesn't even entertain Damian's squawks of outrage as they head to the Cave.

~*~*~

"I absolutely do not want Drake injecting me with anything," Damian hisses. "Under no circumstances would I want that." Tim glowers and gives Dick a look that clearly says he should fix this. “With his abysmal luck? I'll end up a vegetable.” He huffs. "Grayson, you do it." 

"Actually," Dick admits. "You could of do want Tim to do it. He's practiced giving injections and had experience at this. I kind of just stick it in and hope for the best." 

"That's what she said," Jason murmurs behind him, then reconsiders. "Or he. I don't judge." 

"Only execute," Tim mutters and Jason actually smirks a little. “Besides that, I'm not a jinx and if I were then I would hurt myself giving the injection, not you.”

Dick glares at them both, clearly trying to regain as much control of the situation as he can. The only reason he had control in the first place was because of seniority. "Seriously, little D. It's a big needle and a thick serum and it's going to hurt like hell to give it. You don't want to have to repeat it because I screwed it up." 

"I can take the pain," Damian insists, lifting his head defiantly. "I won't even flinch." 

Tim rolls his eyes. "Considering you can barely control walking I doubt you can control flinching or supposedly accidentally hitting me if I'm the one holding you down." He's guiltily kind of grateful that he wasn't the one injured. It was a near thing; Damian had actually simply gotten into the strike path of the attack on Red Robin. Maybe his luck really is turning around.

The outraged noise is almost cute. "You? Holding me down? I refuse this insult! Simply take me back to base and find a proper medic!" 

"You've been bitten by what we can only term a giant alien snapping turtle with fangs," Dick reminds him. "We don't want to leave whatever venom it injected you with in your system any longer than necessary. Which you are making us do by arguing. Let Tim give you the shot. Let Jason and I make sure you don't squirm away due to being controlled by space-turtle venom and do something terrible like have the needle snap off into your muscle." 

Jason looks a little perturbed at that. "Gross. Can that actually happen?"

"We don't want to test it!" Dick snaps and looks to the youngest of them. "Please, Damian. I don't want to have to drug you unconscious, inject you, and have to haul you back to base as dead weight but I totally will." He's trying to look determined and not just pouty. He's been told it's too cute to be taken seriously when he pouts. 

Damian, for his part, looks every bit the defiant child. Tim's always thought of Dick as kind of like a mom which leaves Jason. He's seem more of a tough-love, eccentric uncle. The kind that buys you beer but also makes you drink an entire case of it when he catches you stealing his expensive scotch. “Why are you looking at me fondly but distrustfully?” Jason asks. “I'm just here to watch.” 

Of course. Asking him to help would be far too much. “We don't speak of this,” Damian bargains at last. 

“I think your dad will want to know. And of course we'll have to put it in the report,” Dick argues back. 

“The mission report about how we took the batplane and encountered the very alien forces we were warned to stay away from because we were just working crowd control?” Tim inquires. “How is that mission report going to go down?”

“I was just taking a nap in here and when I woke up we were flying,” Jason says. “I don't know what you crazy people are up to. I would never dream of disobeying orders. I'm here against my will.”

Dick shakes his head and almost looks disappointed. “You're such a fucking liar, Jason.” 

“Language!” Jason scolds. “You're supposed to be the good example!” 

“And you're not supposed to be such an unbelievable pain in my-” 

Damian cuts off the argument with a sharp hissing noise. “If I take the injection will this insufferable conversation come to an end? The two of you are worse than children. I should suggest to Father that he put you in a pit and have you fight to the death so then we will not have to listen to nearly constant squabbling.” 

Normally Tim is against death cage matches but... “He's kind of right.”

The image of Damian Wayne pulling the pants of his uniform half way down his ass is not something Tim wants burned into his brain, but he gets the feeling it's going to happen anyway. He spares a thought for Barbara and her eidetic memory and wonders how she keeps from dwelling on disturbing images. Probably about as well as the rest of them. But Damian's fingers remain hooked in the fabric and he is looking decidedly anywhere but at Tim which makes the experience all the more creepy. "Get on with it," he snaps, and at least that seems normal.

Tim withdraws the syringe and checks the dosage, even if they are pre-measured. It never hurts to be cautious, though an auto-injector would be really nice at about this point. "I kind of feel like the Justice League's call for all hands was an exaggeration," Tim notes. Sure they are on the ground without hope of a rescue for a little while but there's basically no one nearby. He can't even hear any signs of battle any more. 

"Because it was an all free hands call, not an all hands call," Dick replies. He edges closer to Damian, clearly planning on pinning him despite what the younger man says about his ability to stay still. "It's any free, which is anyone who wants to. Then all free which is if you're not occupied you better go. All hands is drop what you're doing if possible and join in. Then there's critical or whatever where you run out of the house with the stove on and your hair wet." 

Jason isn't bothering to be subtle with his approach to Damian. "Yeah I'm not answering any of those. They aren't the boss of me."

"You're here now," Damian points out, voice muffled a little because it's far more comfortable to simply lie face down instead of trying to twist his neck. 

"Told you. Was taking a nap in the plane." And no one points out the fault in logic of how he'd gotten to the plane in the first place. Tim makes a subtle gesture to his two older brothers. He has the needle ready. They just need to pin. 

And pin they do. Damian shrieks in rage and rears back to bite Dick, who has the upper half. Tim ignores the carnage and slips in to jam the needle into the muscle of...well it's not his ass-muscle but it's close. Tim has flashbacks sometimes of the first time Bruce had to give him an injection there. Bruce hadn't been looking. Tim had a huge bruise and a sore butt for a month. He'll do better by Damian because he, unlike Bruce, can practice some kind of emotional detachment in interpersonal relationships. 

"I think he has fangs now," Dick notes, enduring the bite in the interest of keeping Damian still. "The turtle just poisons you, right? It doesn't turn you into a wereturtle?"

"Because aliens would invade this planet to turn us all into space turtles," Tim replies as the needle slides home. He injects the serum slowly, knowing it burns like a son of a bitch, but there's nothing to be done for that. Damian yells again but it's more rage than hurt. 

Jason has his arms firmly wrapped around Damian's legs like steel banding. "They would if they wanted us as pets!" He grunts but ultimately Damian doesn't have the leg strength that Jason's used to dealing with and it's a futile effort.

“They said the aliens were friendly. Just lost. It was all a misunderstanding.” Dick seems like he's totally thinking about keeping one of them as pets. 

“Yeah, yeah. Because any good animal ever came out of Australia and any good alien ever decided to appear here. If I was sneaking in for nefarious purposes I would be all over an Australian desert and-Robin if you try to kick me again I'm going to snap your kneecap.” 

Damian stills and Tim tries to remember not to rush the injection. It will hurt even more if the liquid in the syringe can't spread into the muscle. It's less than thirty seconds from stab to completion but it still feels like ages. 

Dick verifies that he's done before rubbing Damian's jaws to detach him. "See? Way better than if I did it, baby bat."

"I'm not a baby." Damian puffs up as he says it which basically doesn't prove his point in the least. Tim distracts himself by putting their first aid kit back in order, ignoring the fact that Dick is trying to slap a bandage over the injection site like that's going to do anything at all for it. 

Jason, oddly, is the one who lifts Damian to his feet and straightens his clothes, ignoring the way Dick fusses over him. "Yeah I'm going to be Little Wing to Big Bird until I die. Again. And after that. There's not enough space in his brain for him to learn new nicknames." 

Dick pouts, but Tim can tell he's pleased enough to have Damian soothed and Jason actively participating. "The nearest pick up spot is only about five miles North," he tells them. Tim is always kind of surprised when Dick does something to remind them he's capable and a reasonable choice as de facto leader. Of course he knows Dick is smart and talented but sometimes he forgets. He's fallen into the trap that so many people who care for Dick Grayson fall into. "We can hike that pretty easily. We'll need to take paths with the most cover; we can handle the invaders if any are left roaming around but an airborne attack wouldn't do us any good." 

It's such a mild way to inform them that they'd die horribly. So far the true level of devastation hasn't been reached but none of them want to test it. They silently shoulder the equipment they need and leave the lightest for Damian without commenting on it. He probably is still in some pain from the bite on his shoulder and the jab to his hip since he doesn't protest. Bruce had to train the ability to continue on with broken bones and life-threatening injuries out of him. It's fairly disconcerting to think about. 

"Well," Jason says. "Opinions are like assholes. Widely varied but everybody's got one."

"I wasn't aware you were so studied on assholes."

"I'm looking at one now aren't I?"

~*~*~

With the alien non-invasion contained rather anticlimactically, Tim is hoping that will be the end of the discussion about taking time off. Gotham needs him. The world needs him. His opinion is not even a little inflated on that last part, honestly. 

The hope is quashed when he arrives in the Cave late that night. After Bruce, even, who sits there in his chair like a supervillain, with his fingers steepled together. Tim nearly chokes on the cough drop in his mouth, pounding himself on the chest as he pitches forward to dislodge the candy from his throat. It splatters wetly on the cave floor and he grimaces. 

“I haven't changed my mind on you taking a vacation,” Bruce says mildly. “Is that a cough drop?”

“It's the candy kind. Like the cherry flavor that episode of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland warned you not to eat as candy,” Tim protests. “I'm not sick. And I'm totally uninjured. The worst thing that happened to me was having to give Damian an injection. It means I'm cured, right? No more bad luck?”

Bruce frowns. “I'm not sure curing your bad luck cures the hole slowly forming in your stomach lining, Tim.”

“Nor does the...candy, did you say?” Alfred's tone is somehow even worse than Bruce's. Mostly because Alfred only rarely gets involved with their passive attempts to kill themselves and only when it has gotten rather severe so Tim knows he's not going to talk his way out of this one. He's past the stage of getting out of being benched. But maybe...

“Three days,” Tim offers. “I'll take a long weekend.” 

“Two weeks,” Bruce counters and his eyes narrow because that's quite the gap for their negotiations to start off on. 

Still, Tim knows how to run a company and he didn't get it back on top by being soft and bending on negotiations. “Five days. A full work-week.” 

Bruce's hand runs through his hair and he pulls on it slightly. Dick does the same thing when he's stressed; it's a weird kind of imprinting thing and Tim is suddenly a little horrified from what he's absorbed from Bruce. Food for thought later, maybe. “A business week and two weekends.” 

They stare at one another. “A business week and two Sundays,” Tim offers at last. Sundays are quiet. He can do something else on Sundays. Maybe host a video game marathon or finish that binge-watch he's been meaning to finish. He needs to start looking for positives, right? 

Surprisingly, Bruce seems to agree. “Deal. But you're going where I send you. In this case I'm thinking I've heard Switzerland is nice this time of year and I got a great deal on a train tour.” 

“If you think I'm any more likely to stay on vacation because I'll be on a moving train then you're wrong,” Tim points out and he's a little pleased as he sees Alfred's lips twitch. The man is using a feather duster on some of their equipment like his presence isn't simply an excuse to see how this argument pans out. Tim appreciates his methods. He wonders where Jason is hiding. Hadn't Alfred been stitching him up?

Summoned by Tim's thought, and probably the fact there's no more blood in the water to circle, Jason comes strolling from the general vicinity of medical. There's a neat row of stitches near his scalp and his arm is in a sling. Not injuries he sustained while Tim was with him. 

“I'm sending Dick with you,” Bruce adds while his middle son is sufficiently distracted by the slightly older one. “He needs a break and has expressed an interest in Switzerland.” 

As far as jailers go, Dick isn't the worst option. “You know he's going to be pretending to be a nun named Maria, complete with musical accompaniment, right?” Jason asks with a cheeky smirk. “Do you want to be Louisa or Brigetta?” He turns his gaze to Damian, coming up from the late round of patrol. “We already have Gretl.” 

Damian's lips curl back in a snarl like an angry little dog. It's annoyance; Tim's familiar with real rage from the kid and that usually comes with a helping of something sharp puncturing your skin. In this case it's maybe moderate because Damian hurls a batarang at Jason. It's probably meant to be playful.

But, like most things in his life, it's easy for it to go horribly and unexpectedly wrong. Jason's good arm lifts to deflect at the same time Bruce whips around in his chair to intercept the projectile. Tim has a great view of Bruce's eyes widening right before Jason's fist contacts his face. He reels back from the blow and Jason luges to try to regain his balance, only for his heel to connect with the cough drop left on the floor after Tim spit it out. 

He doesn't fall all the way. Alfred has intercepted Bruce and Jason snags himself on the back of his chair while Tim's mouth is agape in horror. Bruce's nose is bleeding and Jason's sling-clad arm slams into the back of the chair. If it didn't hurt before it definitely does now. 

“Drake!” Damian yells which is not what Tim was expecting in this situation. “You're a menace! A curse!”

“Take responsibility for your actions, Damian,” Bruce scolds as he pinches the bridge of his nose and Alfred moves to make sure Jason's arm isn't broken. “Tim hardly did-” 

“He's cursed!” Damian insists. “Drake is cursed. The bad luck is spreading only now he's injuring others instead of himself! First it was me and now he's after the rest of you.”

“You jumped in the way of the alien mouth,” Tim replies, desperately replaying the scene in his head and...yeah the alien had been coming straight for him before Damian intercepted it.  
It sounds ludicrous. It sounds like the ramblings of a mad man. It sounds...actually kind of vaguely possible. “I'm not,” Tim whispers. “Right? I mean I'm not intentionally-”

Jason hisses as he wiggles his fingers, eyeing Tim and Damian both with suspicion. But Bruce rises to his full height. “Of course you're not,” he says and Tim almost believes it's the truth.”Still, some time away from home will do you good.” 

~*~*~

"Have you noticed the couple two rows up? To the left." Tim murmurs, his lips barely moving. He doesn't even glance up from the magazine he's holding in front of his face. It's a magazine full of useless products no one would ever need with convenient ordering before the plane lands, so Dick knows it's a cover. He hopes it's a cover anyway. Spite-ordering everything in it on Bruce's credit card is really more of a Jason-vengeance thing than a Tim-vengeance thing. 

His gaze shifts to the couple in question. He has noticed them, yes, because he had to stow a carry on above their heads. "What about them?" His gaming system and only pair of matching socks better not be in danger. "She hasn't moved the entire flight," Tim says. "He turned on the screen but just to the real time flight app. Otherwise they've just been sitting there." 

Dick isn't seeing the problem. Between the kid behind him who keeps shrieking and the woman across the aisle who keeps 'accidentally' falling onto his lap he wishes more people would just sit there. "And?" 

"It's a ten hour flight." 

"Oh, Timmy, I'm aware." 

"We're on hour seven. It's like, beyond human endurance to just sit there blankly for that long. Something's wrong with them." 

Dick tries not to discount this as an attempt for Tim to halt the flight and immediately detour back to Gotham for a conspiracy. "Such as?" 

"I don't know. Clones? Androids? Plant people?" Now that's just sad and desperate. 

"I think," he replies. "That you think the only people who are people are the people who look and think like you." His brother stares at him, baby blue eyes narrowing. He tries not to grin and spoil the game.

"This problem will not be waylaid or solved by a Disney song, Dick." Tim is definitely pouting now. 

He leans back in his seat and contemplates ordering Tim a drink and one of those inflatable neck pillows from the ridiculous catalog. He's not exactly thrilled about a train tour in Switzerland but Tim needs the rest. "You might learn things you never knew." Tim elbows him in the ribs. Dick grunts. 

They're somewhere over England by the time Tim proves conclusively that one of the travelers is a robot, having killed and replaced the human version. Her companion may also be a killer robot or might simply be under hypnotic control. Dick has to hand it to the kid; he can sniff out a bizarre superhero-intervention need several miles away. 

He lets Bruce know to make arrangements with whatever superheroes there are in Switzerland, and then tells Tim to stay out of it. It goes over about as well as it could, which means a hissed argument that finally ends in Dick promising to pretend to lose his carry on and let Tim and himself block in the possibly killer robot until help arrives.

He swears his younger brother is disappointed when it seems like the situation is well in hand and they have to trudge like any other passengers to baggage claim instead of engaging in a high-speed chase. Tim stares glumly at the baggage carousel as he eats a peanut butter cracker and Dick takes a moment to check his messages. 

“Good luck, Grayson. You will need it.” From Damian, of course, and the message ends with a bunch of skull emojis, 

Well. If all Tim can do Is ruin his vacation, he'll count himself lucky. How much trouble can he get into on a train, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> There is an original draft somewhere in which Tim breaks his leg by getting it caught in the baggage carousel and drags himself through the airport with Dick chasing him in a security cart. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and reviews always loved, prompts accepted below or [here!](http://strikeyourcolors.tumblr.com/ask) I have a backlog to get through, but I do try to complete everything.


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